


A chair in hell

by eintausendschoen



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Games)
Genre: Accidents Happen, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical swearing, Death Sentence, Escaping Torture, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Former enemies, Foul Language, Freeform, Grief, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Mourning, Post Croft Manor : Blood Ties, Post Rise of the Tomb Raider, Religious Themes, Scars, Survivor Timeline, Tags May Change, Trinity Goons, Wounds, blood/injury mentions, coming to terms, mental health, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eintausendschoen/pseuds/eintausendschoen
Summary: There’s a special chair in hell for those that betray themselves.Lara pays Sam a visit in the hospital. The patient across the hall seems unnervingly familiar. A few weeks later, he’s standing at her door with a maelstrom of chaos at his heels.





	1. Some holy ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpiritWolf00](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritWolf00/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fireflies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273688) by [SpiritWolf00](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritWolf00/pseuds/SpiritWolf00). 



> I’ll be adding tags on the go. Please heed the tags. Stop reading if you don't feel comfortable with anything, alright? I'll place a specific waring at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Abuse, Torture; Death Sentence; Scars
> 
> Read "Fireflies" by SpiritWolf00 and then this happened. It's actually inspired by Chapter 2. Go read it if you haven't!  
> This is a little "Thank you so much, sweetie, for encouraging everyone" on posting their own stuff about Lara/Konstantin. This is for you. 
> 
> Quick word of warning: I'm not exactly sure where this is heading nor when I'll be updating. I was aiming for a short story but it blew up in my face. Also, I am not a native speaker so there's the odd expression and hoard of typos and misspellings to be expected - the buggers keep hiding from me. I'm open to suggestions and critique.

 

 

Some holy ghost

 

 

> Some holy ghost  
>  Keeps me hanging on  
>  Hanging on
> 
> I feel the hands  
>  But I don't see anyone  
>  Anyone  
>  I feel the hands  
>  But I don't see anyone  
>  It's there and gone  
>  Low – Holy Ghost (2011)

 

The door to Sam’s room clicks shut behind me. The hospital hall is quiet. It’s night already. The door opposite Sam’s room is still open. It was empty when I came here in the afternoon.

Now, there’s a guy in the first bed. Faint beeping from the machines he’s hooked up to. Poor sod. All covered in bandages. Even his face.

I quietly turn to leave. It was nice seeing Sam again. She’s getting better, but the process is very slow.  
The nurses of the night-shift give me the usual stern look for blatantly violating visiting hours when I pass them on the way out. But deep down, they’re happy I am visiting Sam again, I know it.  

 

*

 

Sam is fine today. A month of near-daily visits has passed and she’s even reacting to me. That’s huge progress! Though she cannot speak yet, she points out stuff she likes and laughs about the silly faces I make. We’ve been browsing through travel magazines all afternoon. She held my hand all the time.

It’s still very sad. I think she gets that even through the veil around her mind. I switched on the telly a while ago and just sat with her on the bed. She has nodded off in my arms and I keep tracing her hairline and ears while I absentmindedly stare at the screen. It’s a docudrama about Anne Boleyn, that much I’ve noticed, but my thoughts keep wandering.

The muffled scream from next door stirs me. Sam blinks at me groggily when I carefully sit upright. I squeeze her hand and shrug out of her arms.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a minute. Just looking if someone needs help, okay?”

She pouts but lets me go.

It’s way beyond visiting hours already, so the nurses rushing into the room across the hall throw me irritated stares. Amidst the commotion around the bed, I can see the bandaged patient. He is thrashing and howling in a frenzy. There is blood on the sheets where he ripped his dressings.

I catch his gaze. Pale blue eyes. I freeze. _Konstantin?!_ I couldn’t be…!

Then the door slams shut and I’m alone in the hall. The hairs on my arms go up. What the hell…?

Sam moans unhappily behind me. I tear my gaze from the door. Something about that guy’s eyes gives me the creeps. Slowly, I to return to Sam, somewhat shaken. That night, after I’ve returned home, I check the lock on the door twice.

 

*

 

Work at the museum and at the manor keeps me busy the whole following week, so when I come to visit Sam again, I am surprised to find the room across the hall empty again. The sheets on the bed are crumpled, but no-one is there. I cannot resist to sneak in and look at the plaque on the bed. ‘ _Winters, K._ ’ it says.

“You know him?” The irritated voice of the nurse has me spinning around. She’s not from the usual personnel, looks thin and wiry and somehow a bit too cold for hospital staff.

“No, I-“ I clear my throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to... I just _thought_ I knew him.”

“He’s been moved to another facility anyway” she says coolly. “I think your friend over in the other room is waiting for you.”

I smile politely and squeeze past her. “Thanks, and… sorry again.”

Throughout the afternoon my thoughts keep returning to the mysterious man next door. However, the chances that Konstantin could have survived and ended up in the room next door to Sam’s are, well… astronomical. I probably should see my therapist again. She already suggested I might be struggling with something like this in the future. Keep recognizing people… I’ve kept avoiding taking sessions after the initial appointments and have yet to make up my mind about it.  

 

*

 

The hard summer rain pounds on my back on the ride back to the manor a week and a half later. It’s been a long day and I was last in the lab. Again. Taking the bus is hopeless at this hour, so I’ve switched to the bike weeks ago. Rainstorms or no, I don’t really mind the weather. Tomorrow night, I’ll see Sam again. I’m looking forward to that. In the last month, Sam was what kept me going.

I must admit, Siberia left me shaken. The nightmares I have brought home from Yamatai and Siberia both have found new depth in the recent month. Sleep keeps eluding me, I root for exhaustion instead. There’s always work at the museum and they are happy that I work damn near for free as long as I can sneak my own projects into the lab. On days like this, I pull double shifts just to escape the mess in my life. It must be around ten by now. My stomach rumbles uncomfortably. There’s the half-eaten sandwich from noon in my backpack and a few groceries I’ve picked up earlier in the day. Hell, I’m tired. Lately, things have come to a grind.

There’s just so much to piece back together now. A lot to clean up. A half-ruined manor, alongside damaged reputations, fragmented life-stories, shreds of memory and my own missing direction on top of that.

The wind picks up and boy, I am happy to reach that gate. I keep it open these days. Less effort. Skidding through, I leap from the bike in the court before the main entrance. I need to shield my eyes from the gusts of wind. Rainwater smothers my sight as I cross the pebbled yard.

Almost home. Just a hot shower, a quick meal and then back to-….

Shit!

There’s a man by the door.

I squint against the rain. He hasn’t noticed me yet. Dark clothes, lean but muscular frame. He seems vaguely familiar.

“Excuse me?!” My shout is nearly lost against the howl of wind and rain. He freezes, then turns slowly.

My stomach drops when I recognize him.

Konstantin?

What does he…?

“What are you doing here?” I yell across the yard and pull my knife and the knuckledusters from my jacket. Getting ready to fight. He doesn’t move. Surprisingly there isn’t a gun in his hands.

A glance over my shoulder. But no Trinity-Goons behind me.

Not triumphant shouts, no bravado, no taunts either.  
He just stands there and watches me as if he’d seen a ghost. This is getting weird.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

He nods, guardedly. Then slowly raises his hands in surrender. That’s odd.

I take a few steps closer. A gust of rain drenches me completely, and I just want to get out of the weather for once. He’s looking different from the man I remember.

He’s grown gaunt. There are half-healed cuts on his face. And patches. Shit, he looks bad. Not at all like the commander I encountered in Syria and then went up against in Kitezh. In fact, he looks like the ghost of that man.

I pocket the knife again and step closer, out of the rain. Under the sheltered doorway.

Konstantin immediately moves out of my way. Something is seriously wrong here. He looks… lost.

And he’s completely soaked wet. There’s even a puddle on the portico where he had stood before he had turned to face me. The footprints coming up are half dried already, so he has probably been here for a while.

“What do you want?” I can’t hide my growing suspicion. He blinks, confused. The look in his eyes is haunted, searching my face for something. He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze becomes unfixed. Sam is like this sometimes. She just forgets I’m there. I give him time and wait, but nothing happens. The harsh lines on his face have somehow softened and still become more edged out. Something in his posture is different, too. Drained out.

“You are not well, aren’t you?” My quiet question seems to hit something. He blinks again, swallows hard. Then: A slight shake of his head. Finally, an answer. He exhales shakily. “No.”

Okay. This is going to be a complete mess. I can’t help it, but I am curious. He doesn’t seem to pose a threat. Although it wouldn’t be his first time to deceive me. For a second, I’m undecided. I should probably call the police or at least an ambulance. Then again, he might have information. Maybe, just maybe I can use this somehow.

Giving him a sidelong look, I pull the key from my pocket and unlock the door.

I let him into the dark hall. He follows slowly, wearily. Seems to have trouble keeping his balance. The rain pounds onto the glass roof and the tarps I put up there, creating an eerie drone. It’s still a mess in here, boxes and rubble everywhere. Without Winston around, everything started falling to pieces and I haven’t quite figured out how to stop it. The only semi-liveable corner is to the left by the fireplace. I guide him there with the flashlight of my phone, point him to sit down. He picks the couch and sits cautiously on the edge, hands rubbing nervously on his jeans. There are bandages around his hands, too. I’ve spent the last three-ish nights on that couch, and there’s all sorts of stuff lying around. I pull a plaid from the mess I made of the cushions and hand it to him, while I kick a not-so-small-anymore stash of panties and shirts under the couch.

“Get out of that jacket and take the blanket, alright? I’ll get the fire going.” He jumps at the sound of my voice but obeys reluctantly. His movements are clumsy and stiff. Is he just cold, or in pain? He seems to manage on his own, so I turn to the fireplace.

Luckily, I was too exhausted last night to light the fire, so the fireplace is still ready to use. Once the fire’s going, I dart to the downstairs bathroom to catch a few towels and a glass of water for him and quickly change into a dry hoodie and jeans.

When I return, he’s staring absentmindedly into the fire. The blanket is wrapped around his shoulders. Underneath he wears a grey hospital shirt. It looks like Sam’s.

“So, it was you. In the hospital?” My voice sounds awkwardly loud in the hall. He looks up, eyes focussing on me with difficulty. It takes him a few moments to figure out the question and work up an answer. A nod. Again, only barely visible.

What the hell has happened to him?

I take a seat on the coffee table before him. He didn’t come to harm me. He would have made a move by now.

I put the towels beside me and hand him one. He takes it gingerly and unfolds it. His hands seem stiff and it appears to take him all his remaining concentration to focus on the task. Beneath the collar of the hospital shirt I can see extensive burn wounds and a white, soaked through patch where I stabbed him. The shirt clings to his skin. He really lost weight. That isn’t just the missing combat gear.

Whatever this is going to be, it needs rules. Now. “Okay.”  
My voice snaps his eyes back to mine. Is he even coherent? He reacts awfully slow. His seems to have difficulties to hold his focus on me. Shit, has he been drugged? “I need you to give me something to work with here. Just nod or something, alright?”

He nods.

“Good. Are you in danger? In pain?”  
He thinks on it for a second. A reluctant shake of his head.

“Not immediately, then?”  
A nod.

“Okay, fine. So, what do you need: Rest? Food?”  
Two tired nods. Great. I’m not exactly sitting on a stuffed pantry here.  
“Well, it must be your lucky day then. I have half a sandwich and some cereal here. And here’s a glass of water. Think you can stomach any of that?”

His eyes glaze over for a moment. He bows to support his head with his hands, and I hear him draw forced, slow breaths. “No.” Then he buries his face in the towel. After a few moments he looks up again. “But you should lock your door.”

A bit baffled, I get up and over to the door to lock it. Well, he’s right after all: I did forget about the door entirely. When I return, he has emptied the glass and leaned back against the sofa. His eyes closed, his face pale. Nausea probably. He holds the towel in his lap in a white-knuckled grip. His arms, too, are covered in patches, scratches and burns. There are bruises in the crease of his right arm. Looks like he received IV not long ago, too.

He exhales heavily when I retake my seat in front on him. “Thanks.”

“So, you can speak then.” I don’t hide my irritation. “Mind to tell me what you are doing here?”

He struggles to open his eyes and look at me. “Nowhere… else to go” he slurs.

Wow. What? Not that I wasn’t suspecting something along the lines already, but… “Excuse me?”

“I… ran.” His voice is almost inaudible against the noise of the storm and the prattle of the fire. He swallows hard, I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing. “They are… executing me tomorrow.”

It takes me a few seconds to make sense of that. A shiver runs down my back. “You… wait, what? You ran from what? From Trinity?”

He nods.

“Because they are going to kill you?”

“For treason.” His voice is a rasp. He is visibly shivering now, despite the warmth of the fire and the blanket. He draws his arms around himself, presses the towel to his chest.

“Well… if you expect me to protect you-“

He shakes his head no and waves his hand dismissively. The answer is clipped: “No need. It’s settled.”

“Settled?” What the fuck is wrong with him? There is no death sentence in this country any more. He cannot be serious! “What do you mean by ‘settled’?”

“Means it’s none of your concern, Croft.” If it is meant to sound angry, he fails miserably. He just sounds beaten.

“What the fuck are you doing here then, huh? You’re not making any sense.”

He shrugs. “That I’ve heard a lot lately.” Then he laughs, but it’s not sounding amused. Just desperate. He rubs his face with his palm. When his hand comes away again, his eyes are wet.

This is getting uncomfortable.

He stares back into the fire, eyes unfixed. “I didn’t…” he starts. Clears his throat, shrugs helpless. “I’m here because…” Three rapid blinks, another cough. His voice sounds choked. “I didn’t expect you lived here.”

“Well, surprise. It’s my home. Where else should I-” I’m immediately sorry for snapping at him when he looks at me blankly. Finally, I get it. “Oh. You weren’t looking for me.”

He nods.

“Ana?”

Another nod. He turns back to the fire. “I’m not even sure what I came here for.”

The silence feels painful. He looks miserable, and suddenly, I can relate. This house is so full of dead people’s things and lost lives. Barely more than a tomb. Probably the only place left to remember Ana by, if he wants to avoid Trinity. Appropriate that we meet here.

It still changes everything.

“Her things are still upstairs.” My quiet words are a peace offering. It takes a few seconds to sink in. His eyes shine in the firelight, and he blinks the tears away before they can fall.

“You can take a shower to warm up, if you like. You must be freezing.”

Now he looks back at me, confused. “What?”

“I thought, maybe…” This is just awkward. “Well, I just thought you could do with a little comfort. You look like you’ve been through hell.”

He scoffs at my cautious attempt at empathy: “Isn’t that exactly where you wanted me to go?”

_Burn in hell_. Yeah, I remember saying that… certainly not my greatest hour. “I’m sorry. You got me pretty riled up. I… I didn’t think you’d survive.”

A frown appears on his face. For a split second, he looks just hurt, then he swallows it down and shrugs. “Me neither. They pulled me out while I was unconscious. Someone told me, a rock had damaged my radio and it kept signalling. That’s how they found me. I only remember waking up in the hospital.”

It makes sense now. “So, when you saw me there, you thought…?”

Another shake of his head. “They kept me drugged for questioning. I don’t recall much of what happened in the hospital. But when they brought me to the car yesterday, I… I don’t know… something _told_ me to run.”

“And here you are.”  
“Here I am.” He kneads the towel in his hands. Stares gravely into the fire again. “I’ve done this before. Extraction and questioning. Getting information about failed missions from the survivors. I know what happens next.” Another shrug. “Usually, they don’t run.”

I’m not sure how to react to that. So, he escaped torture with a big target on his back. And he’s sitting on my couch, dragging me right back into Trinity’s mess. I can’t say I’m happy.

I stand up. “Get up.”  
My demand takes him by surprise. He blinks, dumbfounded, but he obeys, getting to his feet with some difficulty and groaning.

I lead him to the upstairs bathroom. At least this one has some semblance of modern sanitary installations and running hot water.

He struggles with the stairs, and I take his arm to support him. How weird it feels to touch him… His skin feels clammy and cool. He’s obviously glad for the help, but the shame of his weakness is plastered all over his face. Small wonder he happily shrugs my hands off the first chance he gets.  

When we reach the bathroom, he leans heavily against the doorframe, clutching the wood with white knuckles.

“Take whatever you need, alright?” I point at the single bottle of shampoo and the towels stacked besides the shower. I don’t own that much toiletry. “I’ll see if there are any of Winston’s clothes still around for you to wear.”

“That’s… kind of you.” He says quietly. Is there a hint of red on his cheeks?

“Just call if you need something, okay?”  I leave him there before it can get any more embarrassing.

 

*

 

Half an hour later I return with an old knitted sweater and a pair of chequered pyjama bottoms. Probably both left by a former servant in the late fifties, judging by the cut. Way to big for Winston, but I hope they’ll fit him.

The water is still running when I knock on the door. There’s no answer. I knock again, louder. Still nothing. A bit worried, I open the door. He’s still in the shower. The whole room is veiled in moist air.

How hot is he showering? There’s also no sound of movement from the cabin. Something must have happened.

Through the stained-glass shower door, I can see him cowering on the floor. Shit!

Dropping the clothes on the floor, I quickly grab a towel. Opening the door, I find him sitting, leaning sideways into the corner, legs pulled close in a foetal position. His eyes are closed, and the hot water is pouring down on him. It’s not ungraceful, despite the ugly panorama of burned and bruised skin all over his body. At least it doesn’t seem he has fallen. He must have taken a seat, but I cannot determine whether he is unconscious. His skin is reddening already and most of the smaller patches have come off. This can’t be good for his wounds.

I turn of the shower and pull some of the patches from the drain.

“Konstantin?”

He stirs, moves his head like in sleep. Fallen asleep, then. Man… really? As if all of this wasn’t awkward enough already.

I carefully reach into the shower and touch his hand. He stirs again, pulls his hand away and mumbles something unintelligible, but he doesn’t wake.

For a second, I am tempted to just switch the shower to cold. Then I grab his hand again and give it a shake. My patience is running thin, though.

“Konstantin?”

He jerks awake, eyes wide and wild. It takes him a few seconds to recognize me, blinking hard. Then he jumps back, naked fear in his eyes. “ _Sssshit_!” he slurs, backing into the shower wall. Water splashes all over me as he moves.

“It’s okay, it’s okay! You’re safe. You came here, remember.”

He then nods, groans, and rubs his eyes. “Sorry. I must’ve fallen asleep.”

I mumble a ‘ _never mind’_ and hold out the towel. “You think you can manage on your own?”

“I think so.” He groggily grabs the towel and covers himself.

“Good. There are clothes by the sink. I’ll wait outside. Don’t fall asleep again, okay.”

“Mhm” he hums. I leave him, but I keep the door slightly ajar so I can hear what’s going on in there.

Sitting down by the door, I rub my temples. This is a fucking disaster. I should have thrown him out from the beginning. Letting him into the house was certainly my dumbest move so far. Now, I’ve trapped myself. I feel somewhat responsible for him, and I _hate_ it.

Inside the bathroom I can hear him hoisting himself out of the shower. It hadn’t been a pleasant sight finding him there. The wounds were one thing, but seeing him so… utterly vulnerable… The guy in there hasn’t got much in common with the villain I battled in Kitezh. He looked so frail. Thinned out. No, I’m not going there. I’m _not_ pitying him. I am _not_!

I try to recount the list of rope knots I know to tie, just to get my mind away from that and into something productive. Shit I’m too tired to manage even four in a row without getting distracted by his soft hisses and moans, or the rustle and slither of fabric on skin. It’s maddening!

I get up again and start to pace the corridor. By the time he emerges from the bathroom I’m ready to yell at him. He doesn’t give me the chance, however.

“I am… very sorry for the _inconvenience_ I am causing you” he says. His voice is small. He hugs the bundle of his wet clothes to his chest and god, he looks laughably small in the borrowed sweater. It really isn’t his colour, but the cut _dwarves_ him.

“I’ll put your clothes in the dryer later” I offer, and he hands them over wordlessly. Then I hold out my arm again. “Let’s just get this over with, alright?”

He nods, and gingerly takes my arm. He’s radiating warmth. It is so strange to smell my shampoo on him. Carefully, we make our way over to the master bedroom. He mostly uses the wall for support.

When I open the door to the bedroom, he gives me a puzzled look. “Are Ana’s things in there?”

“No, my bed is. And you’re going to use it.”

The shock on his face is almost funny to see. “I can’t-“

“No, you _will_. End of discussion. I bet it’s about the last place Trinity will look for you, anyway. And you need sleep. You can go through your sister’s stuff tomorrow, but you need to rest, first. Alright?”

He sighs, clearly irritated. “I’ll take the couch. This is-“

I cut him short again: “This is currently the only usable bedroom, and forgive me, but I don’t think I can handle the hassle of getting you down the stairs again right now. You’ll take the bed and if you don’t like it – too bad!”

Whatever he wanted to say dies there, between us. He looks away, his lips pressed thin. The sarcasm was too much, then. It’s my turn to sigh: “Sorry, I didn’t want to…”

He shakes his head and limps wordlessly ahead into the room.

Somehow, I feel like I’ll have to repair the damage. “I’ll be down in the hall. Just shout if you need anything, okay?”  
He nods, but he doesn’t look back.

“Good night.”

Before I lay down for the night, way past one in the morning, I text my boss that I’ll have to call in sick for tomorrow. I won’t leave fucking _Konstantin_ rummaging around the manor on his own. Tonight, my knife joins the gun under my pillow.


	2. Locked in here forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and welcome back, everyone - sorry for the wait. :)
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Abuse, Torture; Descriptions of Wounds, Scars, emotionally coming to terms, loss, death of family members;

Locked in here forever

 

> “You’ve been locked in here forever and you just can’t say goodbye.”  
>  Apocalypse - Cigarettes after Sex (2017)

Birds are singing outside when I wake up. It’s probably shortly before dawn. The sky is still dark. Something woke me. Something unusual. I notice that I’ve grabbed my knife. Nightmare? Or is there something else?  
  
The fire went out, and the house is silent. The storm has died off sometime in the night. Listening closely, I can hear quiet noises coming from upstairs. Someone tossing in bed.  
Konstantin. Right. He’s here.  
  
Well, I am awake now. Carpe Diem and so on…  
  
I visit the bathroom to change into my track pants and a plain shirt I probably should have washed a week ago. Then I shuffle to the kitchen, make a cup of tea and sit by the window, trying to figure this all out. Not that I get very far. He dumped a heap of riddles at my feet and I don’t even know if I am supposed to solve them. Just as it’s about to ruin my mood, a series of shuffling and clattering noises from upstairs has me on my feet.  
  
He has probably woken up, too. Maybe he’s searching for something. I grab my cup and make my way upstairs. Maybe it’s nothing, but better safe than sorry.  
  
He’s sitting in the bed when I enter, back turned toward the door. He’s only wearing his pyjama bottoms; the sweater lies discarded on the floor. If he has noticed me entering, he ignores it. He keeps staring at something in his hands, something that is shielded from my view.  
  
I pause under the door, taking in the scene. He switched on the small camping light on my nightstand – and probably knocked over some of the items I keep there. In the cool white light, his skin seems even paler. His back looks just vile.  
  
The stab wound I inflicted on him during our battle is the most prominent of a multitude of smaller wounds and bruises. And there are scars. At first, I think they are just more badly healed chafings like the one on his cheek. On a closer look... has he been... whipped? Anyway, that must have been a long time ago.  
  
To announce my presence, I knock quietly on the door. He whirls around in surprise. His expression changes to guilt immediately. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”  
  
I pull my arms around me and walk closer, my cup of tea pressed close. “I heard noises, but I was awake before. It’s almost dawn.” I stop at the window, look out on the dark grounds. “I’ve hardly slept past sunrise since Siberia.”  
  
He says nothing, and when I look back at him, his gaze has returned to his hands. He unwrapped the bandages around his palms, revealing his stigmata. The wounds have healed over. They’re not pretty, but it’s… somehow, it’s a comforting sight. There’s an unexpected thoughtfulness on his face. Like in the chart room in the Gulag…  
  
“How are you feeling?” I ask quietly.  
“Better”, he says, tearing his gaze off his hands. His eyes are hauntingly clear. “And… a lot worse.”  
“How’s that?”  
  
He shrugs and joins me by the window. The pale light casts deep valleys beneath his ribs. There are fine blond hairs on his chest and arms, growing in irregular patches that form a line down to his navel. He must have been well in form before I nearly killed him, but now he looks… diminished. There’s the sewn shut stab wound above his heart. The thread has been removed, but the stitches are still visible in the weld of the scar. He gingerly touches it, following my gaze, traces his finger across. “There’s… a lot of pain. At least I am not numb anymore. That’s better.”  
  
I look back outside, realizing that I’ve been staring. “I understand. Pain is… a lot better than feeling nothing at all. Or not knowing how to feel.”  
There’s only silence, but I can feel him looking at me, studying me. I can feel his questions in the hairs rising on my arms. When he looks out of the window again, I know he has found his own answers.  
  
I put my tea down on the windowsill, toy with the handle of the cup. It’s running cold, but it’s been brewed out of habit anyway. He watches me, and there’s something odd in feeling the weight of his attention. It’s… not unpleasant. Maybe it’s his impending death, maybe something else, but something has changed in him. Or rather, something has lifted away and revealed another side of him. An honest, vulnerable side that intrigues me more than it should.  
  
“I am… so sorry” he says, right then. It’s quiet and frightened, and still powerful. A blow dealt straight to my heart: “You lost so much.”  
I look up sharply. “What?”  
  
He can’t go back now. There’s fear in his eyes and hope. “When we fought, I was… taunting you, trying to make you angry enough to finish me. I couldn’t handle my defeat, and I got… ugly. I said things… about you. About your father. Things I now am … sorry about.”  
  
My blood runs cold. It feels unreal, like losing my footing on an iced wall without axe and rope to keep me from dropping.  
  
“You’ve been kind to me”, he continues, “Even when there was no need for you to be. You could have called the police and gotten rid of me. And still, you chose to be kind. Offered shelter, clothes, help. I am…” His voice is breaking up. His eyes are wet again. “I am grateful for that. And it’s… humbling. It made me think. About you. What I’ve done to your family…”  
  
My hands ball into fists. I draw a deep, slow breath, exhale it fully to calm myself. The rage is back, and there’s pity. All I want to do is… punch him. And yet, something holds me back. I cross my arms in front of my chest to stop them from shaking.  
  
“I know what you’ve done to him.” He flinches under my clipped words as if I physically hit him. “No need for details, I can imagine. I’ve seen you do your _work _in Siberia. You are a cruel, misguided bastard and that is enough information. Take your apologies and …” I fall silent. _Go to hell.___ It’s left unsaid, but it had been loud enough in the subtext anyway.  
  
I’ve hurt him. I can see it clearly in his eyes. I have stabbed him all over again. It feels shitty. It feels shitty to have said that. And it’s not even true anymore. That’s what he _was_ , but that isn't the man before me now.  
  
“Sorry.” I turn away, I can’t look at him anymore. It hurts too much. There’s so much bitterness, so much old pain. He’s here now, my dad is not. My dad was not there when I needed him. No-one was.  
Except for Ana. And I didn’t want her. Now, Ana is gone, too… They’re all gone.  
  
He probably lost just as much as I did.  
  
“Seems we’re the only ones left,” I say, and I know how hollow and bitter it sounds.  
“Tomorrow I’ll be gone, too”, he whispers. He’s all choked up, I can hear that. And it makes me angry as fuck.  
I turn back to him. I want to know what the fuck is going on here. “Do you really want to die?”  
  
He shakes his head, and for the first time, I see him smile. Sad, and sorry, his eyes bright with remorse and tears. It’s an unsettling sight. “No. I don’t. But there’s no way out, either. It’s final.”  
“You’ve given up?” I raise my eyebrows and turn fully to face him, arms still crossed firmly in front of my chest.  
  
A helpless shrug. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t know where I stand. What I’ve got…” He huffs, shakes his head, rubs his eyes. “Ah… it’s probably better this way.”  
His words feel… _wrong_. It shouldn’t be this way. He hit rock bottom, I get it, but giving up like this… I feel sorry for him, can’t help it – and at the same time, it annoys the hell out of me. This isn’t getting us anywhere. This isn’t helping. Best to change direction to get things going again.  
  
“Okay then. What’s it going to be? Breakfast first? Or should I bring you a cup of coffee while you go through Ana’s stuff?” I can’t help but sound gruff.  
  
This catches him off guard and he blinks. Then an amused huff escapes him. The darkness is lifting. “I’ll take the coffee, I think.”  
“Good.” I take my mug with the meanwhile cold tea and turn to leave. “Your clothes are in the bathroom. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bottom drawer somewhere. Get dressed and meet me in the study down the hall, okay? And you can keep the sweater if you like.”  
  
I am out before he can muster an answer.  
  
*  
  
  
He takes his time. I’ve been well into my second cup of tea when he enters the study. He changed into the jeans, but he kept the ugly sweater. It’s a dusty shade of coppery brown that clashes harshly with his ashen blond. I spot the collar of the hospital shirt peeking from underneath it.  
I put the rough map of Kitezh that I’ve been working on aside to greet him.  
  
He stares at something on that awkward pile of boxes by the door: “Is that the…?”  
  
Ah, he spotted the Atlas. “Yep. Sofia thought it would be best if I took it with me.”  
  
He reverently lifts it from where it’s perched on the mover’s boxes. “It’s very much useless now, isn’t it?” Turning it in his hands, he looks at it from all sides. “Ana found it beautiful. I didn’t take the time to take in the craftsmanship of those people. This is an incredible piece of work.”  
  
“It is.” I join him and watch him trace the lines and cuts in the bronze surface. “All of Kitezh was… incredibly impressive. You really should have taken the time while you had the chance.”  
He places the Atlas down again. “I know. I just wish I had known that weeks ago.”  
  
Suddenly, he reminds me of Jacob. He has the same curious quality of thoughtfulness about him. For a second, I am wondering how much I myself haven’t seen while I was busy fighting him. He’s still a murderer, I tell myself to shake the thought. _As am I,_ reminds me that dark, ugly voice from beneath my thoughts.  
  
Clearing my throat, I gesture him to follow me. “Come. You came here for a reason, didn’t you?”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out a little shorter because I divided it in two. The next part will be way longer, and there'll be more action, too. ;)  
> As always - thank you so much for reading, I'll be happy to read your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this far. I'll be of course very happy about your thoughts on this. Critique, a hint on any mistakes I overlooked and random ramblings welcome anytime. ;3


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